


Higher Ceilings

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:20:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daiki’s never been over-the-top codependent, but this isn’t that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Higher Ceilings

Daiki’s aware of something uncomfortable, permeating his nonsensical dreams; he’s aware but he’s still holding on to the sensation of comfort, of sleeping on a mattress that’s his own for the first time in maybe three weeks, but at some point it’s not enough anymore and he’s tossed like an errant shot into the backboard back into the real world, and all of a sudden it all hits him.

His back is still sore from the flight and his eyes are full of sleep and he has to blink even staring at the pillow and he can feel the sweat running down the inside of his leg and pooling in his knee, trickling from the side of his forehead all the way across his cheek, tracing lines across his back. It’s itchy and sticky and he has to stop himself from jerking his knee up and slamming Atsushi in the back.

Daiki had fallen asleep half-spooning him last night; he’d gotten in so damn late that he’d barely had time to kick off his pants and crawl into bed and it had been cooler then and even if it hadn’t it’s been almost a month since he’d seen Atsushi because of the fucking overlapping road trips and it’s been almost a month since he’d touched him, and that’s too long. (Daiki’s never been over-the-top codependent, but this isn’t that and even if he’d woken Atsushi up he probably wouldn’t have gotten a bad reaction out of him, neutral at worst.) As it is, Daiki had end up rolling away from him in the few hours; he’s still on Florida time and he can’t go back to sleep right now. He glances at the clock; it’s fifteen or so minutes until Atsushi’s alarm anyway. He might as well get up, at least to take his sweat-soaked shirt off. He balls it up and tosses it into the hamper, and sitting on the edge of the bed turns to get a good look of his sleeping boyfriend in the early morning light.

Atsushi’s sprawled out on his side, half-hugging a couple of pillows; his legs are tangled in the covers like roots of a tree planted in the sidewalk outgrowing their concrete cage, and his hair is loose and matted against his neck. Stubble clings to his cheeks in miniature barbs, darker than the light violet of his hair. Maybe, Daiki thinks, he should stay.

But he’ll just wake Atsushi up early with his shifting around and he needs whatever extra sleep he can get, especially when the weather’s only going to get hotter from here (this isn’t a real April; it’s not crushingly-humid and slightly warm the way it is back home and it’s still weird to him even after however many years) and they’re both going to end up in the playoffs getting more minutes against tougher opponents (and maybe even each other if they get that far).

The kitchen is quiet; it’s a little bit cooler but the window’s open and the box fan is on low, circulating the stale air just a little bit. Daiki opens the refrigerator and pulls out the carton of milk. He hefts it in his palm. There’s not much left. He opens the flap and sniffs it; it smells fine and he lifts it to his lips, chugging down all of it at once.

“Gross.”

Atsushi’s standing in the doorway, slightly stooped to fit under the top, gathering his hair into a ponytail. He weaves the elastic over his fingers and into his hair, stopping to tuck in a stray strand or two like plastic produce bags whose ends fall out of the crisper drawer before someone haphazardly shoves them backward.

“Morning,” Daiki says, flashing him a grin.

Atsushi rolls his eyes; he always does when Daiki drinks the milk straight from the carton (sometimes he’ll talk about germs and how he cooks with that milk but really, Daiki’s stopped doing it most of the time anyway).

“I made cake,” says Atsushi, pointing his thumb at the pie dish sitting in the center of the kitchen table.

It’s half-finished; the cut reveals three layers of chocolate, each separated by a soft pastel pink icing (strawberry? Red food coloring?) and despite the heat Daiki’s mouth is watering and he can easily see himself eating all of what’s left.

He grabs a plate and a knife from the dish rack and cuts himself a slice; Atsushi’s leaning him against the doorway and watching him through sleepy eyes.

“Come here,” says Daiki, and he doesn’t expect Atsushi to come but he does.

He yawns, half-sitting on the stool next to Daiki and leaning his head on Daiki’s shoulder. Daiki picks up a handful of cake from the end of the slice and stuffs it in his mouth; and damn it’s good (Atsushi’s cooking always is, especially after he hasn’t had it for a while. The chocolate is rich and smooth and the icing has the distinctive tang of fresh cherries.

“Gross,” says Atsushi again, as he reaches over himself to pick up a couple of crumbs and lick them off his fingers.

“Hypocrite.”

“You did it first.”

Atsushi mumbles the last bit, because his mouth is already so close to Daiki’s ear and it’s less than a second until it’s touching the corner of Daiki’s lips, licking the bits of cake and icing from his skin. His lips pause exactly over Daiki’s, press firmly but lightly—and then he moves away.

“Get your own slice,” says Daiki.

The shrill tone of the alarm sounds from the bedroom; Atsushi sighs.

“I’ll get it,” says Daiki.

Atsushi’s already plodding off down the hall; Daiki leaves his cake and follows. He can hear the coffee machine sputtering behind him as the automated timer wakes it from its own sleep, and before he reaches the bedroom door the distinct thud of Atsushi slamming the off button on the alarm clock.

He’s already getting dressed for his morning run (he claims it wakes him up, but he always ends up having several cups of coffee when he comes back and then taking a nap sometimes anyway) and Daiki watches him, mirroring his earlier pose against the doorframe. Atsushi looks up as he pulls on his ratty t-shirt and meets his eyes.

“You’re not tall enough to do that.”

Daiki makes a face at him and reaches his hand up, palming the frame. And yeah, okay, he kind of isn’t; he’s not folding his body like cheap deck furniture to get from room to room; he has to stretch to half-fill it like this. Atsushi snorts and makes his way over. He ducks his head to fit himself into the very little remaining space, and covers Daiki’s hand with his own, tugging it down and tugging him over the threshold.

“When the lease is up, we’re getting something with higher ceilings.”

It’s probably not true; both of them hate looking for apartments and hate packing even more (despite having relatively few things) and Atsushi had said the same thing last year and they’d ended up renewing, but Daiki’s not going to bring that up. And he’s also not going to bring up the way their hands are so sweaty that their palms are sticking together (well, his palm is really encased in Atsushi’s and then stuck), because despite the heat he really doesn’t want to stop.

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as something else but ended up as aomura (unavoidably)
> 
> why am i so fond of this ship 
> 
> what is this even about


End file.
